


Project Archangel: Nevada

by Anonymous



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, F/M, First Contact War, Garrus is a Bad Turian, Heavy Angst, SLOWWWW BURRRRNN, Slow Burn, Vomiting, but they still fall in love i promise, first contact war au where humans don't realise turians are sentient, human weapons are surprisingly effective, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:47:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29317344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: First Contact War AU. Humans manage to capture a few turians, but quickly discover that the alien species is almost entirely non-verbal and surprisingly passive in captivity.Among others, Project Archangel is launched in Nevada in order to study and attempt to train a captured alien. The woman in charge of the op? Jane Shepard, interplanetary warfare veteran.
Relationships: Female Shepard/Garrus Vakarian
Comments: 27
Kudos: 46
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> hii. i'll try to be succinct with this: obviously, huge, huge canon divergence. I took so many liberties, oh my god. there are multiple other first contact war aus, and i've definitely seen a fic where turians are treated like pets (if you have the link, make sure to drop it in the comments!) but I hope mine is not a repetition of what's already been done. // this work won't contain sexually explicit content, but it IS an adult (18+) story because of the subject matter, much like ME itself. so like. you know. 
> 
> a note: Joker is a part time wheelchair user in this fic. this is due to safety regulations and the fact he'd be doing a lot more walking now that he's not doing pilot things. this is set wayy in the past in Mass Effect, so there are no fancy Cerberus leg braces. i'd like to make clear, he's grumpy about it because he'd much rather be doing pilot things. if you take ANY issue with this portrayal please, please let me know. I will listen and do my best to adjust.

As far as Shepard is concerned, the military and private companies working together is _never_ a good sign. 

When she first got the memo that she was being pulled back from the relay to participate in some clandestine Earth op, she was baffled. She’s a space marine, an infiltrator, and her job until now has been exactly what she trained for - even if the alien part is, to put it lightly, novel. She shoots a gun. She sits in cover. She gives orders. Not clean-cut, maybe, but at the core of it - simple. It has to be. Friendlies, bad guys, and the mission. 

Point is, she’s not a _scientist_. And she’s definitely not an animal behaviorist. Her and her crew have been shooting the lizard-aliens from their spaceship and on uncharted worlds for over a year now, like something out of a late 1930s' radio drama, and never once failed; she is quick, smart, and reliable, and she is damn good at her job. She knows her superiors know that. 

So. The idea of getting grounded in Nevada to work with captive aliens? Feels a whole lot like punishment. 

On the ground, of course, they turn it all around. The military is working with a private firm to set up several training facilities, and since they’re supposed to be training for combat, a handful of navy units are going to give context and purpose to that training. They have to be trustworthy, they have to be disciplined, and they have to have at least a year’s experience fighting the damn things--and Shepard’s crew had been among the first sent out. In the eyes of the superiors, they’re a perfect pick.

But it’s an insult, mainly. There are other commanders still up there, who were deemed too essential to bother with this pseudo-scientific bullshit. Maybe it’s Shepard’s own shortcomings, maybe it’s good old-fashioned sexism, but at the end of the day--she knows what she is. 

She’s a marine. She follows orders.

**

At first glance, the human who got him is not much different from the others. She - judging from the jutting parts on her chest, she's a female, but he knows that's not always a given - is fleshy, and small, and stocky in the way most humans are. She wears military print like all the others, and her fringe is shaved close to her scalp, translucently yellow in colour. 

By the time she gets him, all of his fear, anxiety and anger have faded into gratitude just to be out of the cage. Humans kept a handful of captured turians not in projected enclosures, not some sort of field bubble, but in sturdy, metal cages with thick bars and a lockpad on the front--not tall enough to even stand in, not long enough to lie down. He could only stick his claws out through the gaps, which is almost worse. 

In a lot of ways, it feels like the end of the world. 

In a lot, though, it doesn't. Maybe it hasn't completely settled in yet, or maybe humans just don't quite know what to do with the turians they capture this way; after all, so far, it's just been cargo holds, rattling containers, and waiting. Always the waiting. He even got used to the gravity; different than on the ship, weird and uncomfortable, but not so much that it actually harms him, thankfully. He tries not to hate himself for being one of the unlucky few that got caught. He doesn’t judge the others, obviously, but somehow he can’t believe it happened to him. It shouldn’t have been him. His military service was almost up. The more he thinks about it, the more it all feels like a cruel joke.

Garrus doesn't know how long it's been--Earth days are different--but a few weeks, probably. The turians he whispered with while they were being moved told him the humans are planning to use them as pets, or maybe weapons, or maybe just for dissection. They told him the war is far from over, and that Palaven will not abandon them. 

He believed them.

When the front of the cage opens, he forces himself to exit slowly. He's completely naked, which might've jarred him before all this - but now, he's mostly just cold. He shivers as he straightens up, flinches when the man who opened the door brings down a thick black baton over the top of his head. 

Garrus hunches, then settles back down into an awkward crouch on the cool metal hangar floor. The male human says something. The sounds they make are rounded and loud, undampened by subvocals and harsh to his membranes. Even from a distance, overheard, they’d made him frown. Such an ugly tongue. 

The human who got him is looking down at him, her thick, muscular arms crossed on her chest. She says something. From experience, he can tell by the way her intonation hooks that it's a question. Garrus, like almost everyone else at this point, had a universal translator installed in both membranes when he was ten; but the way they work, or so it was explained to him, requires more than the actual hard data - that’s the language itself, which humans never uploaded (understandable, seeing as they don’t even know that tech exists) - but also relies on the data bouncing back and forth. With no point of reference, and no recognizable input, the translator simply doesn’t work. 

And all he hears are fleshy, wet mouth-sounds.

There is a beat of silence. Then, the human man shakes his head and brings out a collar. 

Garrus does not like that. 

He hisses through the gaps on the sides of his mouth, pulling his head back with a jolt. From the side, another man approaches with a metal loop on a pole, and catches Garrus' head with it. It constricts immediately, clenching down on his sensitive throat, and Garrus swears aloud in pain. The other one lunges forward with the collar and snaps it shut around his neck. They wrestle for a second, the man tugging on the chain, Garrus jerking away, but despite their smaller size, humans are far from weak, and Garrus hasn't eaten in... in a long time. He hangs his head, coughing and sputtering, and feels the thinner metal loop release--but it's not really a comfort when he's got that bulky collar on his neck, now, weighing him down. 

Oh, but the wonders never cease. 

When he looks up, he realises they're bringing something else over. It's a strange shape cut from thick black fabric, and for just a second he's simply confused, wondering what it might be. Then they put it over his mouth and secure it on a band around the back of his head, pressing his mandibles uncomfortably to his face, and the realisation sinks in. 

He's been muzzled. 

The anger and shame flare up in him anew, and he whips his head to the side, clawing at the mask. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the man raise the baton again--until the woman barks out a few words, curt and sharp, and his hand stills in the air. 

The woman looks down at Garrus with a firm expression. Then, she takes the offered chain in her hand, and pulls on it lightly. 

He slowly begins to stand, and this time, there is no protest. He still keeps his head low just in case, shoulders slumped; maybe it’s better to look as non-threatening as possible, on the off chance she might underestimate him. He is still marginally taller than her. From above, she looks a bit different--a bit smaller, less intimidating. He notices the metal rectangles hanging from a metal chain around her neck, and a patch on her green military jacket that has human symbols on it. He recognises none of them spare for the 'N7', which he's seen plastered on almost everything on the way. 

Belatedly, Garrus realises this is the closest he's ever been to a human since his capture. He could probably get her in the throat with his talons, if he put enough strength behind it. He could see that crimson-red blood spill. 

He chases the thought away. He's not strong enough, and they'd shoot him right after, anyway. He's not going to die getting revenge against a human he only just met. 

The woman pulls, a bit harder this time, and he steps forward, closer to her. Her eyes are not round like a turian's, but shaped almost like their fleshy mouths, with bits of white on either side of the coloured iris. 

She says something, aiming it at him. He doesn't understand a word of it, of course, so he just stares at her blankly for a second before glancing around the hangar.

One big exit, where the truck came in, and one small--off to the far side, with a green light over it. There are a few other humans walking around, carrying both datapads and paper lists, and no other turian cages. 

Uh-oh. 

The woman jerks her head at the small door, and he realises she wants him to walk first. Smart. He lifts both hands to his collar and gulps as he adjusts it so that the chain hangs in the back, then starts walking. 

The woman follows close enough that he doesn't have to yank on the chain, but the pressure of her hold is there, a constant reminder of her presence. He stops briefly when the door slides open in front of him, then steps through. 

Immediately, two weapons are pointed in his direction. The corridor he's stepped into looks inflatable, with billowing white walls on a metal skeleton; there are two soldiers standing guard by the entrance, both dressed the same as the woman who got him. His stomach lurches and he backs up a bit, ready to use the human like a shield. Human weapons are not laser-based, like every other civilised race's; they spit old metal, which - while not useful in space warfare - is far more deadly in close quarters. A laser shot hits you, you get a burn, maybe need some surface cybers. There is no shrugging off a pure metal bullet through the arm. 

To his surprise, he feels the human's hand on his collar. She holds him in place, at her side, her eyes fixed on the two others. In a low, hard voice, she says just a few words, and they're allowed through. 

It's clear she didn't buy him. That much he knows. There was no exchange of currency, and she doesn't look like what rich humans look like; if anything, it seems like he's a military asset, or an aid of the weapon variety, sent from somewhere further up the ladder. She’s not wowed, not touching him, not looking; she just leads him, firm but not uncomfortable, her eyes fixed dead ahead.

She brings him into a large inflatable dome, the size of a small ship or building. There are metal ribs along the walls, holding it up, and what he recognises as tech and screens set up along grey tables and desks. Cables run in thick ropes along the floor, suspended under the ceiling, snaking around lamps. It has none of the turian sleekness and effective design; it mostly looks like it's being held together by spit and prayers. 

There are humans all over the place, of course. Most of them look up to stare when Garrus enters, but they get back to work just as quickly, busier than salarians. The woman ignores the bustling science centre and heads right, to another corridor. 

So far, the layout hasn't been difficult to memorize. He's confident he could rip through the side of the tent, if pressed; the scientists are unarmed. He could--

Eh, but he won't. He's on Earth; he has nowhere to go, and if he escapes, he'll be shot on sight by the first human who spots him. He's trying his damn best to keep brave, but the reality of things is starting to sink in: he's not getting out. 

The next corridor leads to a far more sturdy structure, a metal building with a sliding door, thrumming with generator power. It's much neater, all metal and glass, and further in there is a large cargo lift that takes them down a level, into a sprawling, fluorescent-lit basement.

This place--now, this place gives him the creeps. They go through what resembles an airlock - another layer of security - and suddenly, they’re in a large open area. 

It looks like a training facility. There's a structure clearly meant for climbing, a pool behind a glass wall off to the side, a sand-filled ring - meant for brawling, no doubt - at the far end. At the very back of the room, behind a wall of thick glass, there is an enclosure. 

An enclosure the woman is now leading him towards. 

He groans quietly, the sound muffled by the muzzle, and flexes his mandibles despite the tight squeeze. He does not like the idea of being stuck underground, his limits tested for the benefit of human scientists. That's something from a cheap alien horror flick, right there, the kind Solana used to read when she was a teenager. 

His shoulders fall. He's tried his best not to think about his family, but the alien abduction nonsense is just such a Sol thing. She will laugh so hard when he tells her. If he ever gets to tell her. (Actually, he’s not so sure she’ll laugh.)

He stops. The woman stops as well, looking up at him. 

Then, she gestures ‘down’. Wary, he kneels, and immediately regrets it when she reaches for his face. Without thinking, he swats at her, his opposite hand coming up with the talons flared, and she jumps away with a hiss as they make contact. She doesn't let go of the chain, but the fiercely red gash along the side of her wrist is spilling blood. She curses - that much is obvious - and waves her hand about, almost like she's shaking the pain out of it. It's weird. And sort of funny. 

He expects punishment. He's gotten whacked for way less, not looking further than half an hour ago, for straightening up too fast--but, to his surprise, the woman just reaches for him again, much, much slower this time. She says something as she does it, her voice quiet, soothing.

He doesn't scratch. When her hand reaches around and behind his head, he winces a bit - they both freeze - but then, with a quick motion, she unclips the muzzle and yanks her hand back, unharmed. The scrap of thick black fabric falls. In a moment of sheer spite, Garrus swats it away, talons cutting the firm rubbery floor. 

When he looks at the woman again, she's got her free hand on the weapon at her hip, almost waiting to draw it. Her stance is combat-ready, her eyes severe, and the hand clutching the chain white-knuckled. 

He blinks. He should probably let her know he's grateful, and that he won't hurt her. He doesn't particularly want to be nice, still cranky and aching from the long journey in the cage, but it seems like the smart thing to do; let her know that if she keeps this up, he won’t cause her problems. Or injuries. 

Then again, he remembers what was drilled into them at the beginning of the First Contact War; if a turian got caught, it was expected of them to - put simply - shut down. To stay quiet and play dumb, never risk revealing anything that could be used against turiankind, from language to biology. 

He lets his gaze drift off to the side. Not confrontational, but not aware, either. 

The woman sighs. She takes her hand away from her weapon and leads him over to the enclosure. He stops again in the entrance, digging his heels in and bracing his hands in the doorway.

" _Come on_ ," she groans, which is one of the few phrases he recognizes in the human tongue, right next to ' _fuck you'_ and ' _hello'_. He doesn't know exactly what it means, but it seems to be an expression of exasperation. 

She tugs on the chain, walking further in. 

"Piss off," he murmurs, the sounds coming out in a quiet chirp and huff. 

She pulls again, and gasps when a few drops of blood spatter on the floor at her feet. With a quiet whine, she stops to pull at her sleeve--and suddenly, Garrus realises that the wound he gave her is worse than just a scrape. It might've been only that on a turian, but human skin is soft, pliable. The wound is deep and it is _bleeding_ , thick and red, blood smearing all up her arm as she clutches it with a hiss. Another handful of drops hits the floor. 

" _Fuck_ ," she whispers. 

Garrus... feels bad. 

He steps in through the doorway and approaches her, but now she is the scared one; she stumbles back, switching hands on the chain so that she can hold the injured arm close to her body. Her eyes are fixed on him. 

She looks like a frightened animal. 

He scowls. He can't escape - he knows all that awaits him upstairs is people with guns - so he might as well make life easier for her, just this once. As an apology. He passes her and walks over to the military-issue mattress under the opposite wall, then plops down on it. 

It's a very bare room. Nothing really... in here, except a human approximation of a toilet and sink, and a black wall over on the side that looks like a dark mirror. There’s a black box with a flashing red light under the ceiling, might be some kind of camera or recorder. Unpleasant.

He rolls his shoulders and sighs, mandibles pressing tightly to the sides of his face. 

When he looks up, he realises the woman is still watching him--and now, she seems puzzled. She doesn't linger any longer, though. With him secure, she lets go of the chain and steps back out. A slam of her hand on the control panel brings down a metal shutter over the glass wall, locking him well and truly inside, and then the door slides shut. 

He hears the bolts snap into place. 

**

The good doctor whistles faintly, splashing the wound with antiseptic. Only one talon caught her - a long, angled gash over her wrist, curling to the inside of her arm. Shepard winces slightly at the sharp pain. It hurts much worse than the actual slash did. 

"It's a defensive attack," Chakwas informs her in that calm, steady voice, bringing out the needle. "The aliens don't use their talons often, and they're not sharp. It's the force behind the strike that actually cuts. Their teeth, on the other hand..." 

She hums, drawing the needle through Shepard's skin. It pulls and tugs in all the worst ways. 

"He was muzzled," Shepard grumbles, "Given the chance, he probably would've bitten me." 

She makes a thoughtful sound. 

"You're lucky he didn't. Their teeth are sharp, and the wounds they leave always get infected. This, on the other hand, should heal up nicely," Chakwas finishes the stitches and pats her arm, smirking a little when Shepard cringes at the pain, "You've been out of the field too long, Commander. Look at you, pouting like a little girl." 

Her tone is sweet and gently teasing, no bite in it. She applies some antibiotic paste over the stitching, adds gauze, and goes around it all with a bandage. 

"There," she smiles, "Lovely. I have to say, it's nice to be working on cuts and scrapes for once. Until I get bored of it, at least." 

Shepard smiles back, slipping off the cot and testing the injured arm. The pain isn't too bad, now that it's all pressed down nice and snug. "Thanks, Doc." She stretches a bit. "Didn't know you studied the aliens." 

Chakwas sits back down in her revolving chair and skitters over to the trash can to throw her gloves away. 

"Not too much, mind you," she says, "But I've seen a couple alien bites on the front, before I was transferred to your crew. They don't do it often, though. They're too proud, I think." She chuckles.

Shepard thanks her again and heads out, to her room. It's been a long day already, and getting longer; get a pet you're supposed to train like a damn Jurassic World raptor, get scratched by said pet... and then stand there and marvel at his surprising obedience when he realises how hurt you are. Isn't that when he should've attacked? She'd been distracted, bleeding.

And yet. 

Every piece of information they have on aliens proves one thing: they get stupid in captivity. They don't understand orders, don't pay attention, and don't learn. Mostly, they just curl up and die. The goal here, according to Miss E-Cup’s brief, is to prevent that. Captivity can't have that big of an effect on them, after all, they've got opposable thumbs and know how to pull a trigger. Even if they're not sentient the way humans are, they're not animals. 

The goal, ultimately, is to see if she can train this thing. Make it follow orders.

She sighs, exhausted. That’s enough new experiences and sensations for one day. 

The training facility was built in a fevered rush, and as a result it's cramped and awkward. Shepard and her team sleep in two-person rooms on the upper level, while the science team have the opposite wing. She goes there now, her arm pulsating, and drops heavily onto her bed before the door even shuts behind her. She groans into the pillow. 

"Oh, like you've got it bad," a voice comes from the doorway, and she realises Joker has rolled in in his wheelchair. The door shuts behind him.

She moans and turns onto her side, watching as he lifts himself up and shakily walks over to his bed, one hand trailing the wall. 

"Stop complaining, you know it's better for you," she mutters. 

"You know what would be better for me?" he sits on his bed, opposite hers, and takes his cap off, "If I could, you know, do my job. That would be 'better'." He throws the cap at her. It makes contact with her butt with a quiet thwump. 

"Come on, man," she groans louder, "Orders are orders. I'm not the goddamn alien whisperer either, but we've got new jobs to do, and we're gonna do them." 

Joker straightens at once, annoyance giving way to interest. He leans forward on the bed.

"It's here?" 

"Yeah," Shepard pushes herself up on her elbows and sits, "I picked him up from the hangar today. Got a new battle scar, too." 

She waves her injured arm around. Joker furrows his brow, mildly concerned. 

"You all right?" 

"Yeah, it was my fault," she sighs, "I spooked him." 

Joker shuffles further onto his bed, so that his back rests against the wall and his legs lie straight before him. It's one of her favourite things about being stationed here in the ass-crack of nowhere, Nevada; in a lot of ways, it's been like a summer trip with her team. They're training for interplanetary warfare, sure, but it's less depresonalized than waiting for orders in orbit or near a relay, night after night spent alone in her cabin. 

Well, that came out wrong. She's not screwing Joker. Not that she wouldn't, if she weren't his commanding officer, but it would probably just make things weird anyway. 

"So," Joker shrugs, "Proper training begins tomorrow, huh? How are we feeling about that, chief?" 

"Stressed," she admits, "Year on the front or not, we don't know anything about them, really." 

"Well, what's there to know?" he squints, "I mean, didn't the nerds downstairs say they don't even have a language? That they just chirp?"

"They did. And I know," she shrugs, "But it's a different story when you're alone in a room with him." She kicks off her shoes, one foot working them off the other. They thud loudly onto the metal floor. 

"I guess so." Joker lets it go, then perks up again. "Hey, do you think I could see him?" 

Shepard pulls her legs up, knees wide open and arms loosely rested against them. 

“This isn't a petting zoo, Moreau," she chides. 

"Who said anything about petting? I just want to get a look at him." He scowls, making grabby hands at his hat. She throws it back to him. "It seems kind of weird by now that I've never seen one up close and personal. You guys get to _punch_ them, and what do I do? I--" 

"I said no, Joker," she pushes, "I'm not putting any more stress on him than absolutely necessary. Nobody likes being gawked at." 

"Yeah, yeah," Joker scowls.

A sharp pang of cold goes through her. “Jesus, Jeff. Sorry.” 

He blinks, not quite pacified, but at least he's not upset. "So, you're really taking the alien whisperer thing seriously, then?" 

Shepard doesn't move. The alien she got from headquarters, he's... big. She knows they wear armor, but this one had been naked. His plates are a silvery shade, a pretty rare one from what she's seen, and he has wide blue markings over his cheeks and nose. Those tattoos - or whatever they are - are common, actually more common than bare faces, but they haven't been studied thoroughly enough to decode. 

It's another reminder of how painfully little they know about the aliens. They don't even know where they came from, much less if they have a culture, and if so--if it's similar to human at all. 

Oh, and he's got blue eyes. That, she's never seen before. The aliens' eyes come in shades ranging from brown to red, maybe yellow, but she's never seen ones like his. They're almost... pretty, if anything about these huge, spiky space-lizards _can_ be pretty.

And maybe it's just his unique appearance - her searching for something that's not there - but he seems... odd. Not exactly what she was prepped for in the brief. She's had dogs before, trained them to sit, to follow, to be quiet at meal time. They're predictable, most of the time, you can read their intentions from where they're looking, how their body is positioned. 

She gets none of that from the alien. One second, he's watching her intently, almost like he can understand; the next, it's as if she doesn't exist, his eyes studying the room. Weird. Erratic. And that's just day one. 

But, well, she knows what she is. She’s a marine, and she follows orders. She looks up at Joker and nods.

"I've got a job to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fair warning, i'm writing this mostly as a Gift To Me, so if you'd like to see more of this... please, hahah, let me know. anyway, as you can see, it'll be a while before Garrus and Shepard actually manage to TALK to each other, but I promise they will eventually. Eventually.  
> Thank you so much for reading. I hope you have a lovely day/night.


	2. Day Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your comments and kudos :) they really mean a lot!  
> warning, suicide ideation in this one. also, re: tech/biology: some magic may occur. im not a biochemist. sorry :)

Shepard sighs at the documents, stamped with a giant red 'classified' over the side. 

Project Archangel is now - officially - a go. 

The instructions are sparse to say the least. They'd promised her an animal behaviorist, but she's nowhere to be seen, and the mission waits for no-one. The science team in the dome is going to have to do. 

She starts the day with a quick shower and a meeting in the brief room, where she quickly informs her squad - once-crew - that the asset is secured, and that she will begin the introductions. The rest of them are to assist as necessary, but as she told Joker, she wants them out of the way for the first few days. Kaidan and Ashley head down to the blackout lab, Jack goes back to loitering and intimidating people, and the rest make themselves a non-issue by removing themselves from Shepard's vicinity. Overall, it's not a total disaster yet. 

She heads down to the basement at nine hundred hours on the dot. 

Contracted smartasses further up the ladder had decided that the first step to interspecies communication was establishing a relationship. Not unlike with a dog, Shepard is supposed to make herself the boss, the provider, and for that--she needs a resource to provide. 

The food is stacked on what looks like a buffet cart, packed in squishy plastic bags with straws on them. Gardner, the guy in charge of planning the alien's diet, is standing off to the side, looking nervous. 

"What's up?" Shepard asks in lieu of greeting.

"Commander," he nods, then glances at the shuttered enclosure again. "The Director and her team have been in the blackout lab all morning. It's been making noises." 

Shepard exhales. "We know it's a male, Gardner." 

"Do we?" he looks unconvinced, "Anyway, bon appetite to the monster, I guess. We have water that's been completely purified," he lifts one of the bags off to the side, "And nutrient mush. Can't account for taste, but it's all the good stuff, raw protein. Judging by his weight, and assuming he's got a digestive system similar to ours, he should eat a bag of this stuff a day, to be safe." 

"A whole bag?" Shepard picks one up, testing the weight. It's hefty. 

"He's a big sonofabitch," Gardner shrugs. 

She wastes no more time. Carrying one bag of mush and one of purified water, she makes her way over to the enclosure. She lifts the shutter on the glass wall, then opens the door. 

The alien is curled up in the corner, nowhere near the mattress, his knees pulled up to his overlarge chest. It's such a shockingly human pose that for a second, she can do nothing but stare; when he notices her, he shifts his legs to one side, pushing himself more tightly to the wall. 

Shepard takes a breath, makes sure her weapon is at the ready, and enters the enclosure. 

"Good morning," she says, mostly to herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she registers that Gardner is heading speedily for the lift. 

She knows the dark pane of glass on the other side of the room hides the blackout lab, full of scientists monitoring her every move, but without any sound or visual cues, it's almost hard to believe they're there at all. The door shuts behind her and she is alone with the alien again, locked in close quarters. Her arm throbs as if in warning. 

"We might've started off on the wrong foot," she says despite herself, stepping forward, "My name is Shepard." 

He makes no sound. His gaze flicks between her and the bags in her hands. 

"You must be hungry," she cocks an eyebrow, "It says to reward good behavior with food, but I say you've been plenty good already. Haven't bitten my head off for entering, for starters." 

Stepping back a bit, she sits on the floor. The alien, though still collared with the chain hanging from his neck, is not bound to anything; he could leap at any second. 

And he does move, then. He moves quickly, fluidly, so fast Shepard jerks away on instinct--but he is already at her arm, studying the bandages. He lowers his face a bit and sniffs at her skin, then at the clean white fabric. 

His hands come up to her arm and she is this close to grabbing her weapon, but she doesn't. He's being slow now, almost careful with his movements, and his hands sliding over her skin lightly for their size. 

The tucks one talon underneath the bandage, and she unthinkingly puts a hand over his, gently pushing it away. 

"No," she says firmly, "It's all right. The doctor patched me up." 

He glances up at her, round blue eyes frighteningly expressive, and backs off. They do understand tone.

She half-expects Miranda to get on her case for touching, but the wire in her ear remains quiet. Shepard is gonna have to ask Ashley about it later. Ash should be running security in the blackout lab, and she's got good ears--though no accounting for what's between them.

"The project is called Archangel," she says to the alien, settling in more comfortably on the floor, "So that's what I'll call you. Besides, you're not so bad," she tilts her head, smiling a bit, "Maybe not an angel, but not bad." 

She could swear he's glaring. Maybe she's being too chipper. 

"It's just a nickname," she justifies, "I need to call you something. ‘Angel’ for short." 

He moves a bit at the repeat. 

She points at him. "Angel." 

He chirps, a loud, sudden trill--she flinches at the noise, but doesn't stand. She points at herself. "Shepard. I'm Shepard. I'm gonna look after you." 

She's not sure he gets it, but anyway, it's about time to move on. She picks up the food bag and uncaps the straw, top dangling on a thin piece of plastic. 

After a moment, she forces herself to take a tiny sip from it, just to indicate it's food. It tastes disgusting. Like milk, or eggs, with a sweet tinge. She almost gags. 

"Uhh," she wipes her mouth, sliding the bag across the floor to him, "Eat." 

He just stares at it. 

"Come on," she says, a warning in her voice, "Eat. I know you haven't had anything in weeks, and you need to get strong fast." 

He looks at the bag, then at her, and then at the glass wall, suddenly very interested in the alien jungle gym outside. 

"Hey," Shepard taps her fingers on the floor in an effort to get his attention, "Hey. Aren't you hungry?" 

He hisses without moving his face plates, through the uncovered sides of his mouth. It draws her attention to the teeth peeking out there; long and thin, sharp like needles. Damn. 

"You're not getting out there until you eat," she warns. 

He says nothing. 

"Angel," she tries.

Nothing--except, after a moment, his eyes dart to hers, even though his head stays in place. 

He knows. The damn lizard bastard knows she's talking to him. She sighs in exasperation and sits up a bit to tug her jacket off her shoulders, then throws it off to the side, leaving her a little chilly in her wife beater. 

"Okay," she sighs, "Okay, well, how about water?" 

She picks up the other bag and uncaps the straw, spilling some of the contents out into the palm of her hand. A few drops fall to the floor. She sees his eyes on them as she brings her hand to her mouth and drinks. 

Wiping her face on her arm, she offers him the bag, sliding it across the floor with the straw pointed up. 

He does nothing. 

Is a straw even a good idea? Those teeth look like they might pierce it. She sighs, running a hand over her short-cropped hair. 

"I know the cage must've sucked," she says, "But you're out now. And this is the best I can do for you. You're supposed to be up and following basic orders in three days, and if I can't follow the program with you, the project's gonna flop and you'll..." 

She trails off. Even if he can't understand her, she doesn't want to say it. She scowls, wondering... 

She slaps herself in the forehead. 

"Wait," she sits up, "Wait, your mouth doesn't close all the way. You can't suck." 

Then, she grabs the water bag, and pours some into her palm--just a bit, like before. She holds her cupped hand out to him. 

"Come on, Angel," she tries. Her arm is out straight in front of her, as far from her body as she can get it. "Don't bite me, now..." 

When he leans in, it's slow, just like he was with her bandages, like he's scared she might attack at any moment if he does anything wrong--which, to be fair, is true. Her weapon is still on her hip, and her other hand is resting on it, at the ready. 

When he draws close enough for her to feel his breath on the tips of his fingers, he stops. Just as she's about to encourage him further, a huge, blue tongue slips out from his between his teeth and slides against her palm, into the water. The touch is alien and odd; wet, but a bit textured, gritty. It dashes back into his mouth almost as soon as it leaves it, and he pulls back, watching her with big eyes. 

Shepard laughs. 

"Holy shit," she brings her hand back, sopping wet, and flicks her fingers, "Holy shit." 

The whitecoats next door clearly share that sentiment, because the wire in her ear crackles to life. 

"Just a quick, standard question," Miranda's mildly curious voice comes through, "Are you insane?" 

She says nothing. She hasn't processed it yet. Miranda was there at the brief this morning, and 'no touching' had been something she might've mentioned, maybe; Shepard doesn't really listen to her. They only just met in the dome, for this mission, and she's not entirely sold on Miss E-cup yet. 

"You got it to eat out of your hand, Shepard. Well, drink." She sounds pleased, now. Shepard's never heard Miranda sound pleased. "This is incredible progress. Try it again." 

Feeling very good about herself, Shepard gives the alien the bag and cups her hands into a larger bowl. She watches as he figures out the straw, tilts, and squeezes; just like a human would, except with his three-fingered hand. Water gushes out into her palms, and once they are full, she brings them out for him to drink from. 

He dunks his entire face in, startling her, and laps with his tongue. Not quite like a cat--his tongue is thicker, more like a human's--but that strange texture she keeps noticing apparently helps bring the water into his mouth regardless. 

She doesn't feel too secure, truth be told, with all those teeth snapping so close to her fingers, but at least for now he seems occupied. 

Maybe she should get him a bowl. Shouldn't be too hard to come by, if she has a couple hours to drive into town. 

As she's thinking, she realises that he has pulled back and is now watching her again. She offers her hands for the remainder of the water, but he doesn't move. His eyes look--clearer, somehow, sharper. She has no doubt he's paying attention, he's just... not doing it. 

With a sigh, she wipes her hands on her slacks, the water stains disappearing in the camo print. 

"All right, big guy," she sighs, "Good enough. You wanna come with me?" 

She walks over to the door and gestures for him to follow, curling her wrist inwards to motion with her whole hand. 

Angel (as that's what she's started calling him in her head) stands shakily on his long, thin legs, one hand braced against the wall. 

"Come on," she encourages quietly, stepping outside and holding the door. 

His chain drags on the floor behind him with a clatter as he makes his way over, unsteady on his feet. He must not have slept. She knows from the brief that the aliens do sleep, four of five hours at a time, and that deprivation manifests much the same as it does in humans - stumbling, shaking, losing clarity. 

He straightens after a moment, though. She gestures at the chain. 

"Give me that," she says. 

He glances down at it, then back at her. 

"Angel," she says, a bit more firmly, "Give me that." 

He takes a step back, mandibles snapping to his face. 

"Oh my God, you're so stubborn!" she moans, running a hand down her face, "Don't you want to get out of here? Stretch your legs? I can't just let you roam free, you get that, right?" 

He huffs and clicks. Then, he walks over to her again. He doesn't give her the chain, but he stands still, almost offering--or just allowing it. 

Slowly, she reaches for the start of the chain, at the collar. There are darker spots on the skin of his neck around the rim; are those bruises? His neck is soft, unplated. Does it hurt? 

She doesn't want to touch them, lest he take a finger off, but she makes a mental note to get him a leather collar. It's starting to sound more and more like she's going to have to raid the local pet store for basic supplies.

She takes the end of the chain and, making sure she's not pulling, leads him out into the large middle section of the basement. 

On the way, she glances at the dark pane of glass at the back of the enclosure, imagining Miranda and her room full of scientists watching them; but even with that knowledge, she still feels the crushing fear that she is alone with Angel in this giant basement. 

"Front door secure?" she asks. 

"Front door secure," Miranda confirms. 

"All right, Angel," Shepard sighs, "Let's get this over with."

**

Garrus is pissed at himself. 

He's exhausted, sleep deprived, and he had been literally parched after weeks without water--and when she offered him some, he acted without thinking. His pride is still suffering that little fiasco. 

Drinking out of a human's hand. He would shoot himself, if he had a gun. 

Anyway, the human - whose name, he's beginning to suspect, is Shepard - goes over some basic words with him. No. He's gonna call them what they are - commands, like 'sit', 'come', and 'stay'. He figures out what each one means relatively quickly, sure, but he absolutely refuses to follow them. 

Not after he drank out of her hands.

He sits there, cranky and bored out of his mind, while the human loses it trying to get him to stand back up. She talks a lot - fills the silence - which makes it hard to figure out what she actually wants from him; not that he cares. She's clearly not gonna hurt him, she made it obvious she wasn't going to when she didn't fight back over the slash; and she did stop the male from hitting him, at the very beginning. 

He just wants this to be over. One way or another. 

After five minutes of fruitlessly trying to get him to stand, Shepard turns away. Garrus realises that a door has opened up off to the side of the 'alien playground', and a soldier - male, taller than Shepard - comes in through it, wearing heavy body armour and a partial helmet. 

He's carrying a baton. From the slightly bulkier shape, he guesses it's the kind that shocks. 

Feeling a spark of panic, he looks over at Shepard. She says something to the stranger, hands on her hips, and they argue for a few moments before the armored soldier walks up to him and lightly lifts the baton. 

He almost wants him to try it. Maybe he can get a bite in on that tiny human neck. He hisses, low and inviting, muscles bunching up along his neck. 

Before the soldier can do anything, though, Shepard steps in his way and starts arguing with him again. Garrus watches them intently. Every time the armored soldier tries to side step to get to him, Shepard blocks him with her entire body. 

Damn it. He closes his eyes and sighs. Unfortunately, it seems that after weeks of hunger and abuse, he has finally stumbled upon a decent human. Or just one with a weak stomach. Either way, it's clear Shepard, whoever she really is, has got a good amount of compassion for him--and he can use that. 

Loyalty to the Hierarchy is one thing, survival is another. If he does what he has to in order to survive, is that treason? He doesn't have to give out military secrets, Spirits... all he has to do is stand when she tells him to. 

So he does. He stands and walks over to Shepard's back, and as he does, he watches the armored soldier slowly back away. Shepard turns around and jumps a little when she sees him so close, but stands her ground. 

" _Angel_ ," she says. That is what she's been calling him; if it's a nickname, just 'alien', or something else, he doesn't know. Her voice is shaky. "Sit down." 

It's one of the commands he recognises. He lowers himself to the floor right beside her, his legs in front of him. 

The armored soldier just stands there for a few moments, frozen, then shakes his head and and retreats. He stops just beside the door now, though, rather than leaving through it; baton in hand, he becomes a distant, looming figure. A threat. 

Shepard mutters something at him and sighs deeply, crossing her arms on her chest. She's annoyed. Rightfully so; he's wasted a lot of her time playing dumb, he knows, and just proved he's not dumb at all. 

" _Up_ ," she says, gesturing. Is she trying to kill his knees? 

He gets up, making a mental note of the command. 

She shakes her head in offended disbelief. He chuckles a little at her expression; she looks so betrayed. Doesn't she realise he's being nice? Sure, not wanting to take a beating is part of it, but he knows she was trying to stop the other human. Hierarchy put aside for a sec, he'd rather keep on working with her than the guy with the baton any day. 

And anyway, it's not like what he's doing is that bad. You can train a varren to sit, come, and stay. Definitely not treason. 

After repeating the commands a few times, Shepard takes him back to the enclosure and leaves for the rest of the day. Within the first hour, he feels satisfied; after the hour is up, he feels stupid. After the next, he feels angry. 

It's a study in managing expectations, is the point, and his had gotten dangerously high. What did he expect? He's locked in a cage, they're not feeding him the right stuff, and he's been completely abandoned by his people. All things considered, he's probably going to die here. 

And for what? 

The Hierarchy is... well, it's theirs. It has its faults, but it's theirs, and it's what they as turians fall back on in times of crisis. He's rebelled his fair share, argued with his father too many times to count, but at the end of the day, he is a turian. Not a very good one, maybe, but a turian nonetheless. 

He sighs. 

He doesn't want to die. 

He wants to have another calm afternoon with his father; he wants to butt heads with Solana again. 

He curls up in the corner and buries his face in his carapace and arms, eyes falling shut. He wants to go home. He wants Shepard to come back and give him some more water. He was pissed, when he first realised what he'd done; now, he just wants someone to care for him again. 

He's hungry. And cold. 

He glances over to where Shepard's abandoned jacket is still lying in a heap under the glass wall. After a second, he moves towards it, and picks it up - the fabric is soft and much thinner than anything turian-made, but it's better than nothing. He throws it over his shoulders. 

It's barely big enough to cover his back. He curls up again, silently begging the damn human to come back. 


	3. Day Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you might ask yourself. why are the updates so irregular.   
> i dont have the answers.   
> warning for vomiting! lots of vomiting. just... vomiting all over the place. also, limbs getting removed + graphic descriptions of it.

"And then he just... plops down next to me," Shepard glances away from the wide dust road again, one hand on the wheel and the other gesturing emphatically, "Like a cute little puppy. He can understand me, I know it. Maybe not... you know, English, but--" 

"Would it kill you to keep your eyes on the road?" Joker barks as they swerve. 

"Oops," she straightens course, chuckling, "Sorry. This thing handles terribly." 

"Maybe you're just a shit driver," he shoots back, all innocence, mouth curling into a smile. 

"Anyway," Shepard makes a point of evening out course again, "I’m saying, he's way smarter than he's letting on." 

Joker looks over at her. "Are you thinking more... golden retriever who can dial 911, or actually, you know...?" 

Shepard stares dead ahead at the open Nevada desert. They're speeding down the road, nothing in all directions but small, dried-up greenery; here, just the two of them, it feels like she can say it. Her heart suddenly feels very heavy in her chest. 

"Smarter," she says quietly. To her surprise, Joker offers no response. Eventually, he starts biting his nails. 

It's a chilly evening when they finally reach the town. It's one of those alien-themed, gaudy little places, obviously making money off old tradition--there’s gift shops, restaurants, a small flying saucer tacked on a rooftop. The whole shebang. 

"So, what's our backstory?" Joker asks. 

"Huh?" 

"I mean, no offence, but you're about the most obvious jarhead I've seen in my life, and we're right next to an…  _ area  _ famous for a certain kind of secret military activity," he says, mock-whispering.

She pulls up in front of the pet store and turns the engine off. 

"Well," she turns to him, "Either you're my kinky boyfriend--"

He snorts.

"Or you're my freshly wedded husband, and we've decided to get a dog," she smiles, jumping out the side and walking around back to fetch his wheelchair.

It's the shitty one that doesn't draw civilian attention, so it takes two tries to get it into shape.  She sets it down and helps him out of the jeep, and they enter the store together. 

The beanpole high school student behind the counter pops a gum bubble. 

"Evenin'," Shepard slings the greeting his way and rounds a shelf, studying the myriad of toys and supplies lying there, gathering dust. Joker goes the other way around. 

They meet at the other end of the shelf, both empty-handed. 

Awkward in the tiny aisle, she passes him, and finally finds a rack of collars. She picks out the biggest one, making sure it has a proper adjustment, and puts it over her arm. Solid start. It'll do better than that clunky metal thing, for sure. 

"Hey," Joker calls her, "Uh... honey." 

She pokes her head around the shelf. He's holding a fabric leash. 

"Nice," she says, taking it, "He'll like that."

"If you say so." 

From over by the counter, the kid perks up. "You guys getting a dog?" he asks with a bit of a stutter.

Shepard freezes, and Joker takes the wheel. 

"Well, we have one already, actually," he turns himself around, "Found him on the street just a couple days ago. We've decided to keep him." 

"On the street?" the kid blinks, chewing, "You guys, you need to take him to a vet. See if he's got a chip." 

"No, we--we did that," Joker lies quickly, "He doesn't. He's a mutt, probably been a street dog all his life." 

He's good at it, she'll give him that. Maybe not smooth, but convincing. 

Shepard sees a stack of bowls. Should do nicely for meal time. As she takes the two largest ones, the kid's eyes drop to the collar she chose, and he blows a new bubble. 

"Is he a great dane or something?" he asks. 

She forces a laugh. "He's big, yeah." She pauses. "Very sweet, though." 

"Sure," he kid's eyes are on her bandaged forearm, now. 

"He was abused," she clears her throat, then backtracks quickly, "I mean, I assume he was. He's snappy sometimes."

The kid glances between them, and Shepard sees her chance. 

"Hey, uh," she drops the handful of pet supplies she's holding down on the counter, shifting her weight between her feet. "What if he's not eating?" 

The kid stops chewing. The startled look he gives her is bone-chilling. 

“Not eating?” he repeats. 

Shepard nods, a weight settling in her stomach. 

"Not even treats? Nothing?"

"He had some water.”

"He could be sick," the kid says, shrugging one shoulder, "He could be depressed." 

"The vet, uh," Shepard continues the ruse of this fictitious vet despite herself, hating the lie, "Said he's fine. A bit beaten up, but healthy." 

She catches Joker giving her an odd look. She ignores him, watching the kid. His face is sour.

"Well, then... maybe he's just sad," he says. 

Shepard blinks. Her eyes drop to the counter, and all the shit she's about to get. 

Maybe. 

She spent the whole ride over telling Joker how smart he is. This should be obvious. How wasn't it obvious? He's--it's possible he's a  _ person _ , who got abducted by aliens, and is now being studied against his will. And he’s all alone in it, surrounded by strange creatures he doesn't understand, and who don't understand... him. She realises her mouth is hanging open, and shuts it. 

"Hey," the kid clears his throat, "Hey, ma'am, look, uh. It's not your fault. He's a stray, yeah? It's not your fault something bad happened to him."

Her throat is dry. She doesn't say anything. 

"You just need to, you know, show him that he's loved now," he adds, "Give him a nice home. He'll settle in." 

He nods, a bit awkwardly. 

"Also, make sure he's under professional vet care," he murmurs, "And don't sue me."

Shepard pays for the shit. She throws the shit in the back with Joker's wheelchair. She slams the driver's side door shut and waits for him to slowly walk around and get into the passenger seat. Her fingers drum on the wheel. It’s dark outside, the sky a faint indigo over the purple desert. 

"So, just a quick thought," Joker says, slamming his door shut as well, "What the hell was that?" 

His tone is light, almost panicked. She starts the engine.

"Dunno what you mean." 

She throws the car in reverse and pulls into the street.

"You've had that thing for what, a day," Joker says, unfazed - faintly amazed - counting on his hand, "And you're already acting like it's your firstborn child. Do you have some kind of maternal instinct I don't know about, Commander?"

She glares at him. "If you imply I have a maternal instinct ever again, I'll burn your stupid hat. And the code word is Archangel." 

He laughs. Loud. He turns his cap so that it's backwards, boyish, and gives her a cheeky grin.

"You're a big softie," he says, "But if, fine,  _ Archangel  _ isn't your baby, then what is he? Why do you care so much?" 

Shepard flexes her arms, hands gripping the wheel tight as they roll out of town. 

"He's just..." she looks ahead, "He's just someone who needs me."

She blinks. 

Should she talk about it? God, she hates having to talk about things. Her fingers flex on the wheel.

"I had a fight with Kaidan," she says before Joker can follow up. 

He frowns. "No way. Kaidan? Puppy-dog Eyes Kaidan?" 

Not so puppy-dog with that baton in his hand, armored up. She'd tensed like it was her he would hit. 

"They sent him out to... help me," she clears her throat, "When Angel was disobeying. He didn't want to do it, but he thought he had to. I... lost my temper. Shouted." 

"Eh, part of your charm." 

She groans. 

"Rooming with you has seriously messed up our professional relationship. You know that, right?" she glances over at him, "You think we're buddies now, just 'cause you get to see me in my underwear?" 

"Come on," he bats his lashes at her, "We were always buddies." He sobers after a moment. "Anyway. Alenko won't hold it against you. You're working with... well, with the word we're not saying, and you're all stressed. He'll understand." 

He considers, scratching his beard. 

"Might be a good opportunity to blow off some of that steam, actually."

"What, me and Kaidan?" she glances at him. 

Joker raises an eyebrow at her. She shoots the idea down with some half-assed jibe and shakes her head. Nothing’s casual where friends are involved, at least for her, and she's not going to get tangled up in feelings. Her thoughts are racing and she’s suddenly, bodily tired, right down to her bones. 

They make it back to base late at night. Her shoulders ache from the tension. 

**

After a few hours of waiting, Garrus’ strength gives out. He’s dead asleep in minutes, and when he wakes, he has no idea how long it’s been; feels like just a few moments, but down here, underground, how should he know? It could be morning. Could be the next night. Could have been days--he’d been exhausted.

He's just about spiraled into complete despair when a human comes stomping into the basement with a large plastic bag in either hand.  _ His  _ human.  He can't help but sit up and watch her as she approaches, and yes--yes, Spirits, she's opening his enclosure. 

"Hey," he says, despite himself. It feels so strange, after weeks of nothing but muttered curses, to greet someone. "Hey, uh--" 

She drops the bags with a resounding clatter and claps her hands together as if to shake off the dust. If she noticed he uttered a word, she doesn't show it--i nstead, she says something with a smile, but he only catches 'Angel'. Before he can analyse it further, her expression changes and her eyes are drawn to his back. 

He realises he's still curled up with her jacket over his shoulders. He shrugs it off, embarrassed, and pushes it away. 

She blinks. 

She asks him something, then--appears to remember he can't understand, and mimes shaking, shivering, her hands on her arms. Even though she's a different species, and turians do not  _ shiver _ but rather jolt once in a while, he gets what she means. 

He could nod. Could make it obvious. He knows humans do it too, and they shake their heads... But he's not supposed to; if they realise they can get him to answer with yes and no, who's to say they won't start asking more pressing questions? 

Anyway, she takes the cue regardless, somehow, because she turns on her heel and rushes out of the enclosure, heading for the lift. 

Garrus' eyes drop to the bags on the floor. Shyly, uncertainly, he pokes around in one with his hand; his fingers touch something hard and smooth. He pulls out a bowl - a simple metal bowl, designed to stand on the floor without toppling over. 

Huh. 

**

She looks at the alien as he goes through the bags, lifting and rotating the objects he finds inside. In the time it took her to go fetch her blanket, she also grabbed two bags - food and water - from the fridge to the side of the basement, by the hidden door to the blackout lab.

He can't understand her, right? When he does deign to react, he reacts to words she taught him. Surely, if he understood everything, she wouldn't be able to catch any interest at all. But like this... 

"Angel?" she tries, stepping back inside with the blanket she hauled from her bedroom clutched in her fist and the bags in the crook of her arm. 

As expected, his eyes zip to hers. His expression shifts into one of annoyance when he realises she doesn't want anything in particular, just called his name. 

She moves to hand him the blanket, then hesitates. 

At first, she'd seen him as an animal. Naked, without a weapon, he didn't look much like the aliens she fought on the front; even those had never spoken, and even acted different, moving like a hive mind through the field. Never individual, never smart in the way she was trained to be. 

She imagines Angel holding a blaster. He's... probably killed people. He must have. 

Damn, but she's killed her fair share of the aliens over the past year. That's war. 

She gives him the blanket. 

He takes it carefully, then draws it around his shoulders, over his carapace. His fringe sticks out over top. She gives him some water, too, and watches as he picks the bowl up in his hands and drinks.

"I should probably get you some clothes, huh," she mutters. 

She falls deeper into thought. How can she get a tailor down here? 'Yes, I'd like an outfit, there's just one little catch, well... it's for an alien.' Maybe one of the people already employed at the facility sews as a hobby... 

She blinks, noticing a movement. Angel has reached for one of the bags, one hand pointing vaguely inside.

"Oh?" she blinks, "Right. That's for you." 

She brings out the bowl and sets it aside, then takes out the leather collar. 

"This is not because you're such an angel," she waves it from side to side, "This is because I don't believe in torturing prisoners." 

She beckons him closer with both hands, and he shuffles forward without protest. His plated face is so close, suddenly. She's reminded of the blue stripe across his nose, the intricate lines down his cheeks. 

"Those markings," she sighs, half to herself, as she undoes the metal collar with a quick code input on the side of his neck, "Kind of look like tattoos. I wonder if your guys have art. Probably do, I mean, look at that. That's really pretty." 

As the collar drops with the clatter of the chain, she holds up one hand in his direction, the other cupping her weapon. Just in case.  Angel gives an exasperated look that's so comical in the circumstances, she has to laugh. Without further worry, she fits the leather collar around his neck, then adjusts it to fit snugly. 

"See, you're an okay guy," she mutters as she tightens the clasp, "Not all that mean, when you right get down to it." 

"Shepard," Miranda's voice buzzes in her ear, "Don't anthropomorphize the alien." 

"Can you let me work?" she faces away from Angel for a moment, "He's clearly picking up words from listening to me talk." 

"That's what worries me," Miranda replies. “He was following commands on day  _ two _ , Shepard. He’s clever.” 

"Just shush," she hisses, then turns back to Angel and clips the fabric leash on. "There. Much better. That's way lighter, right?" 

He tests it out, moving his head, and then emits a low, rumbling purr that sounds distinctly appreciative. 

"Oh," Shepard says, equal parts startled and amused, "Oh, that's nice. I like that sound." 

He slumps down, though. Pulling the blanket tighter around himself, he ducks his head and moves back, facing away. 

Metal or leather, it's a collar, and he's clearly smart enough to dislike the  implications. 

“I know,” she nods, “I know.” 

He looks up at her, and then  _ sighs _ , his chest rising and falling slowly. 

“Do you wanna try the food again?” she asks, tipping her head to the side. She glances back at the side of the enclosure, where she set down the supplies.

She reaches for it, groaning a bit as she stretches, then offers it up to him. 

He hangs his head. 

“Don’t be like that,” she pulls one of the bowls up and squeezes the bag until the mush comes out. Not very--well, sort of vomit-looking--but definitely edible. “Come on. Eat some.” 

She dips a finger in and licks it. Holds in a gag. 

“See? I keep telling you, it’s fuckin’ food,” she mutters, shoving the bowl towards him, “Just eat it. Please, Angel, just eat it so we can go practice.” 

He doesn’t move. 

“Oh, my God,” she buries her face in her hands, “Oh, my God. Some more water, at least? Please?”

She gets the water bag and pours a generous amount into the recently emptied second bowl. That, he immediately picks up and lifts to his mouth, drinking greedily. She watches his throat move.  When he’s done, he puts the bowl down and looks at her expectantly. 

She blinks and pours the rest. He drinks that down too. 

“Are you shitting me?” she asks. 

She lightly nudges the food bowl towards him. He looks away. 

“What is wrong with you?” she lifts her hands and resists the urge to slam them down on the floor. “It’s just nutrients! It won’t hurt you! Just like the water, it’s been reduced to just the essentials--it should be safe for you,” her shoulders drop. 

He turns his head away even more, adjusting the blanket around himself and settling onto the mattress. Visibly uninterested. 

She feels so frustrated she wants to cry. She won’t, but she wants to. 

“It’s been  _ weeks _ ,” she says. “Do you want to die? Is that it?” 

He doesn’t move, stubbornly curled into the mattress. 

“You know how long your guys last in captivity?” she asks, growing angry, “Three weeks.” 

“Twenty-six days on average,” a familiar accented voice chirps in her ear.

“Shut up, Miranda,” Shepard snarls, burying her face in her hands. 

She quickly lowers them, remembering he’s not tied down, but he’s still where he was - under his heap of a blanket, not meeting her eyes. 

“Shall I send Officer Williams in?” Miranda asks. 

“No,” she snaps. 

She slowly lowers herself to the floor, lying down on her side despite the hard plastic digging into her shoulder. 

“I’m not leaving until he eats,” she says. 

The alien’s eyes move to hers, and his expression is absolutely pitiful. 

She finds that her throat is tight. He’s a huge, majestic creature, with incredible intelligence and understanding. He hasn’t hurt her since the gash, though she’s given him plenty of opportunities, and follows her lead even though he clearly hates it. He... has grown used to her, after just a few hours together. 

“Please eat something,” she mutters. 

The sharp awareness of the blackout lab watching her fades away. It’s just her, the hard plastic floor, and the alien; starved, collared, and alone. 

“ _ Please,  _ Angel,” she says. 

He gives her a look like he’s tired of her, then lifts himself on one elbow and picks up the bowl. He tilts it up to his mouth; she stares, awed, as he swallows a good mouthful. The bowl is sent sliding across the floor as he drops to the mattress again, turning his back to her and hiding under the blanket. 

She sits up. Glances at the blackout lab. 

“Good job, Shepard,” Miranda says, a smile obvious in her voice. 

**

By evening, she’s exhausted again. The decision to let him have the day after that leap in progress had been unanimous, so she spent the newfound hours going - once again - over the training plan she’d received from command. The brief is a thin file; it gives her nothing except goals, and unhelpful reminders that Miranda’s team is literally just there to document and observe, not interfere. 

Something is missing. Well--not just something, some _ one _ ; the animal behaviorist is nowhere to be seen, and Shepard has nothing to fall back on in the training. 

Not that it really is training. It’s like she’s trying to get a very tired, very upset person to do what she wants despite no apparent end goal. He picks up words within minutes, understands a concept once it’s been shown or mimed. And - even though they haven’t tried it with anyone else yet - she has a feeling he’ll only listen to her. The connection they’re building almost feels... personal. Intimate.

She feels completely lost. 

“You are doing very well, Shepard,” Miranda assures her, when they’re sitting together in the blackout lab after hours. Shepard caught her alone, still tapping away at her terminal even though the place is empty and Angel is asleep in his enclosure. He stays tucked completely under that blanket. 

“I think he’s cold,” Shepard says, her legs dangling over the edge of the desk she’s sitting on, “Do you think we can figure out some clothes for him?” 

“Yes,” Miranda says, to her surprise, “By all means. I’m keeping an eye on some… extra resources that became available about a week ago, as well, but for now, we have to do everything we can to just keep him alive.” 

Her eyes are still on the screen, the white light painting her face in stark shadows. 

“What?” Shepard blinks. 

“He didn’t eat much,” Miranda murmurs, “And he’s still in poor shape. It seems we need to keep his body temperature high. Some kind of body suit…” 

Shepard’s heart hurts at that. She knew, of course, that he was kept in a cage--in a nebulous sense; but hearing it spoken so clinically makes her upset. She shoves it back down. 

“But today was a good sign, right?” she asks.

Miranda finally stops typing and turns in her revolving chair, looking up at her. She looks perfect even after a full day of work, hair neatly arranged and makeup touched-up. Where do women find the time for these things? 

“Yes,” she nods. “You’ve made incredible progress in just three short days. The video of him drinking out of your hands has already been sent up the ladder, I assure you.” 

Shepard blinks. “Wait, what?” 

“What did you think we were filming for?” Miranda stares up at her, “Shepard, we may be unfamiliar to you, but we are professionals. Everything we do here is filed, cataloged, and sent to the people who will want to see it-- _ your  _ people.” 

She hadn’t thought about that. She’d thought--there’d be reports, check-ups. That’s how she’d done things before. Being watched so intimately, so wholly--it makes her skin crawl. 

Suddenly, Miranda leaps out of her chair, one hand coming up to clutch the desk and the other reaching for Shepard’s shoulder. Her face is turned toward the enclosure. Startled, Shepard follows her gaze--and realises the alien is convulsing. 

“Shit,” Miranda darts for the door, and Shepard follows after her, heart pounding in her chest. 

They both run out into the basement, circling the fridge to reach the enclosure. 

“How long’s it been?” Miranda throws over her shoulder, clicking something on a datapad in her hand, “Since he ate! How long’s it been, Shepard?” 

Shepard stutters. “S-seven, maybe eight hours?” 

Miranda slams her hand down on the panel and the door slides open, allowing her inside. 

“Hey, careful!” Shepard pulls her back and gets between them, “Just tell me what to do.” 

“My team needs to get suited up,” she says, staring at her tablet, “Buy him time. Turn him onto his side.” 

Shepard pulls the blanket off him and the situation immediately becomes clear. He’s throwing up onto the floor, waves of nausea racking his body. 

“Oh, fuck,” she whispers, but grabs him as best she can - his plates are rough, like sandpaper - and turns his body over so that he’s not face-down in his own vomit. 

He moves under her hands, mandibles quivering desperately. His body convulses again, and she unthinkingly strokes up his back, shushing. He vomits, mostly bile - or whatever the alien version is - which sends him into a coughing fit. His head rolls limply to the side and though his carapace prevents him from actually hitting the ground, she reaches for him anyway. 

Fighting her disgust, Shepard gets a hand under his head and lets it rest there, raised, his face cupped in her palm. One mandible flattens against his cheek. She strokes her thumb over his mouth plates, gently cleaning, and he lets out a soft, weak sound. His hand - talons and all - comes up to curl around her unguarded wrist, and a cold tendril of fear curls in her stomach. He could cut right through her veins. 

His eyes look foggy. His hand squeezes, but his talons are kept at an angle, away from her skin. 

“It’s all right,” she mutters, wiping his cheek, “It’s fine. It happens.” 

She never noticed Miranda’s people coming in in hazmat suits, but now they’re crouching down all around her, gloved hands coming forward to grip him tightly. 

“Keep him calm,” one of them says. 

Two of them prop Angel up into a half-kneeling position, and he wriggles half-heartedly against them. 

“Angel? Angel, you’re okay,” she strokes a hand up his back again, “We’re gonna help you.” 

“Get his mouth open,” someone says. 

“Why?” Shepard blinks, smacking away the first guy who tries it. 

“Because I need to shove my fingers down his throat. We need to make sure he gets it all out.” 

“Angel?” she holds the back of his neck, elbowing a hazmat out of the way, “Stay calm. It’s gonna be fine.” She keeps her voice steady, firm, reassuring. Like she once talked to a guy who got his arm blown off. There’d been blood everywhere, the lifeless limb abandoned on the ground two feet from where he was sprawled, screaming. 

He was dead in minutes. 

Angel’s eyes clear for just a second, blue and unimaginably afraid. Her stomach sinks. 

Someone pulls her back by the arms, and then the four hazmat suits hold him up and lean him over the toilet. She realises it’s Kaidan gripping her, and struggles, but he’s always been stronger. He hauls her out of the enclosure. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your sweet comments, kudos and subs. they really mean a lot and i love opening ao3. thank you!


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